by David Young
Tilsner interrupted again. ‘So you are going to—’
‘Shut up for a moment, Werner,’ said Müller. She could tell Reiniger, from his tone of voice, was on their side. And that he had some sort of plan worked out.
‘Thank you, Karin.’ The colonel sent a withering look in Tilsner’s direction.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘we are going to accept – for the time being – their account of Dominik Nadel’s death. Our investigation into that – for the time being – is closed. However—’
Reiniger was interrupted by a knock on the door. Their coffee had arrived. A trolley – replete with biscuits, little cakes, and the coffee and cups – was wheeled in. ‘Thank you, Truda,’ Reiniger said, then got up to close the door after her, making sure it was securely shut. He then turned the catch to lock it. He moved to the side door which led to his office, checked that was securely fastened, and again turned the lock.
‘We won’t be disturbed again. Karin, could you perhaps serve?’
Müller could have taken umbrage at this. But she knew Reiniger was a traditionalist, a chauvinist even. There was no point arguing, despite the fact that she had to put up with Tilsner’s smirking as she played the good little waitress, asking each of them how many sugars, which cakes and biscuits they wanted. It was demeaning to her position, but she wanted something out of Reiniger, something she felt she was going to be successful in getting, so she let it pass.
‘I suppose now you’re a major I shouldn’t be asking you to do such things,’ laughed Reiniger.
‘Oh, Karin doesn’t mind, Comrade Oberst. She’s used to it at home.’
Müller, facing away from the colonel, mouthed ‘Arschloch’ silently at Tilsner, then made sure as she passed him his cup that she spilt some of the boiling liquid over his trousers.
‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed.
‘Apologies, Comrade Hauptmann,’ she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words in the same way the coffee was now dripping from Tilsner’s saucer.
The exchange seemed to be missed by Reiniger, who simply continued with his interrupted monologue.
‘So, as I was saying, we do unfortunately have to accede to the Stasi’s version of events, for now, in respect of Dominik Nadel. However, I’ve looked at their files – just as I’m sure you have – and there is no way, in my view, that this boy died from a self-administered heroin overdose. There’s clearly something fishy going on. And also, I have absolute faith in Gudrun Fenstermacher. I’ve come across her before, when I was climbing the greasy pole, as it were, and she tells it how it is – and is usually absolutely correct in her findings.’
Müller wondered for a moment if the pathologist and Reiniger had been closer than he admitted, and had to stifle a giggle. She quickly took a sip of coffee. Reiniger gave her a quizzical look.
‘However, the son of one of our trusted forensic scientists is also missing, and as you know, we like to look after our own. And I gather from you two that there is almost certainly a connection with this “club” the Stasi have been investigating.’
‘That’s right,’ said Müller. ‘And to the motorcycle gang that congregate there. And possibly –’ she hesitated when she said this, and hoped it wasn’t true – ‘to the drugs they were taking.’
‘Exactly,’ tutted Reiniger. ‘Well, as you can imagine, it’s of the utmost importance to the People’s Police that young Markus Schmidt is found safe and well. So important that I’ve decided the task of finding him has to be handled by our new Serious Crimes Department. In other words, the two of you.’
‘So . . .?’ Reiniger’s scheme had finally become clear to Müller.
‘So, in effect, it’s as you were. You’re expressly forbidden to investigate the death of Dominik Nadel itself, as the Stasi assure us their investigations team have solved that matter. However, you may now turn your full attentions to finding Markus – and, of course, the case of Nadel may be an important part of that, so I’m not suggesting you ignore it.’
‘So we just carry on as before?’ said Müller. She tried to keep the relief out of her voice, although she was heartened by the mischievous look in Reiniger’s eyes. He was enjoying this.
‘In effect, yes. I’ll get all the paperwork signed off, switching your attentions to Markus. There will be one change, however.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Tilsner.
‘I’m taking a bit of a risk with this one, and breaking procedure. But despite his intimate link to the case, I’m asking Jonas Schmidt to come back to work. It’s no good him moping at home. I’ve explained everything to him, and while his head will be in a complete mess – that’s understandable, whose wouldn’t be in similar circumstances? – he’s going to be newly energised by all this. Perhaps he can find the forensic evidence that will help us to track down his son.’
*
Before they left the People’s Police headquarters, Reiniger gave Müller a letter. She was unsurprised to see it looked like it had been steamed open and clumsily resealed.
Once Tilsner had left her to collect the Wartburg from the car park – with the aim of getting straight back to Frankfurt and Hütte to continue their inquiries – Müller tore it open.
The letterhead surprised her. She recognised the emblem of the Federal Republic immediately – the strange-looking eagle, with its wings stretched in such a way it looked like it was at a bodybuilding class. Encircling it, the logo of a factory. It was from the West German Ministry for Economic Cooperation, dated just three days earlier.
Dear Major Müller
I understand you are making inquiries into the death of a teenage boy from Eisenhüttenstadt.
I am a junior minister of the Ministry for Economic Cooperation in the Federal Republic. As part of my work, I’ve spent a lot of time in Eisenhüttenstadt negotiating contracts for the supply of steel from the EKO plant there.
I may have some information that might help your inquiries, and I would therefore ask you to contact me at your earliest convenience. If you’re in Hütte, you can try to reach me via the steelworks. Otherwise, for the next few days, I’m actually staying in East Berlin on official business.
I can be contacted at the Hotel Berolina, just behind Kino International on Karl-Marx-Alee. I’m sure you know it. Room 2024.
If for any reason you don’t receive this until after I’ve left Berlin, then my Bonn number is at the top of this letter.
I appreciate you must get plenty of people contacting you, saying they have information. All I would say is that – clearly – given my position, I’m not seeking any reward for information given. I simply have concerns about something, and information to pass on that I think may help you.
It may be advisable to meet somewhere discreet where we can talk freely, rather than at the People’s Police headquarters.
With friendly greetings,
Georg Metzger
The name meant nothing to Müller. But the letter intrigued her. How did this West German politician even know she was the officer in charge? Nadel’s death hadn’t been widely reported in the newspapers. There may have been a paragraph in the local paper near Senftenberg, whatever that was called, but as far as she knew there had been nothing nationally, and nothing in Hütte or Frankfurt, where Metzger seemed to have his connections.
Müller went into her old office at headquarters, the one where she’d been kicking her heels between murder investigations after the end of the graveyard girl case. A few fellow officers nodded cursory greetings, but she hadn’t liked it here, and hadn’t made friends. All she wanted was to use a telephone.
She spotted an empty desk and dialled the hotel’s number, asking to be put through to Metzger’s room. It rang for a few seconds, then the receptionist came back on the line.
‘No one appears to be in that room at present. Can I take a message for you, Comrade?’
Müller gave the girl her own private number at the Strausberger Platz flat, and a message asking Metzger to ring her as soon as he was bac
k.
*
On the short U-bahn journey from Alexanderplatz, Müller considered where best to meet if – as she hoped – Metzger returned her call. His request was for ‘somewhere discreet’. Müller thought back to all her clandestine meetings with Jäger when they were investigating the deaths of the Jugendwerkhof teens. Perhaps she should adopt one of his favourite meeting spots.
22
Weisse See, Weissensee, East Berlin
Metzger was a slender, slightly nervous-looking man. Not how she’d imagined a West German politician at all. She would, of course, ask for all the intelligence the Republic had about him – it would be a thorough briefing, she was sure – but she hadn’t wanted to do that before meeting the man. She didn’t want to prejudge him.
Much in the same way Jäger had done more than eighteen months earlier, Müller rowed slowly to the centre of the lake, with Metzger looking round anxiously, presumably checking if anyone was following them. It was possible that they were being observed, Müller knew. She hadn’t taken the same precautions as Jäger. He’d always arranged their rendezvous by sealed telegrams, presumably delivered by a trusted messenger. Müller couldn’t be bothered with all that. If the Stasi wanted to follow her, they would follow her. There was nothing she could do about it. She knew the likelihood was that both her phones at the Strausberger Platz apartment – the private one and the police hotline – were tapped. But surely they couldn’t have agents listening to every conversation at every hour of the day? It would need a huge amount of manpower. It would be a huge waste of manpower.
Müller glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds, although the rain had held off so far. She had her raincoat on anyway, which would offer some protection, and Metzger at the opposite end of the little boat was hunched down into an anorak. Not the typical coat for a government minister, but at least it would be practical if the heavens opened.
She’d worried about doing the actual rowing. Jäger had been the one to take the oars when they met here. But Metzger didn’t offer, so it was left to Müller to propel the tiny craft to the centre of the lake – where they could be certain no one would eavesdrop.
Once she was satisfied they were as close to the centre of the lake as possible, she rested the oars in the rowlocks and waited for Metzger to tell her whatever it was he had to say. Initially, though, he was silent. The only sound was of water dripping from the resting oars back into the lake, and a gentle slapping of small waves against the side of the wooden boat.
Eventually, Metzger spoke up. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Comrade Major.’ Müller was impressed at the attempt at the official greeting between Party members in the East, but assured the politician there was no need.
‘Karin is fine, Herr Metzger.’
‘You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet somewhere private.’
Müller shrugged. She suspected he wasn’t here simply to talk about steel contracts.
‘I’d like to know, though, if I can trust you.’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Müller. ‘I don’t know if I can give you any assurances there. I’m a police officer, but I work for the People’s Police of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik. I’m therefore also a servant of the state. What I will say, though, is that I have no agenda against you. I don’t even know you. So I don’t see why you would have anything to fear. If it helps ease your mind, I am known as an honest officer. Perhaps, sometimes, too honest for my own good.’
Müller could feel the man appraising her. But not in the way a Tilsner, or possibly even a Jäger would. If Müller’s suspicions were correct, Metzger’s links to this case had come about precisely because of his lack of interest in the female sex.
‘All right,’ he said slowly, drawing out the words. ‘I suppose I can’t ask for any more than that, and it was I who asked for this meeting, not you.’
Müller nodded.
‘This is difficult to admit to. Which is why I asked whether I could trust you. I haven’t committed any crime, but if what I’m about to say became public in the West, then I could pretty much kiss my career goodbye. I’ve no doubt your Stasi will have a file on me, so what I’m about to tell you may not come as a surprise.’ Metzger let his arm hang loosely at his side, and then dragged his finger back and forth through the cool, dark water of the lake. Müller watched him give a small shiver. ‘In my role with the West German Ministry for Economic Cooperation, as I’ve already told you, I have to travel regularly to the East. I’m away from my wife and family . . .’
Metzger’s voice trailed off as he caught Müller’s look of surprise. ‘Yes, Comrade Major. I have a wife and two young children. It’s the sort of thing that helps a political career. But when I’m over in the East – in Eisenhüttenstadt, or at trade fairs, for example in Leipzig – well, it can get lonely. And when men get lonely, they seek comfort. And sometimes, if that comfort is not readily found, it has to be paid for.’
‘So you’re saying you use prostitutes, Herr Metzger? You’re not the first family man to be guilty of that, by any stretch of the imagination.’
The man closed his eyes for a moment. ‘No, but it’s worse than that. My particular preference, when I need comfort, is men.’
‘So you’re homosexual?’
Metzger shook his head. ‘Not exclusively, no. As I said, I have a wife and children. I find women attractive too. So you might say I’m bisexual.’
‘All very interesting, Herr Metzger. But how does this relate to my inquiry?’
‘Last month I was at the Leipzig Trade Fair. I was drinking alone in the Interhotel bar when I was approached by a young man – well, youth, I suppose – who made it very clear he was available . . . at a price. Initially, I laughed it off. Denied I was interested. But he was there the next night, we got talking, and one thing led to another.’
Metzger stared wistfully at the shoreline, and the Milchhäuschen café: the one Müller knew was a haunt for Stasi operatives. But she didn’t think he was spy-spotting – instead, he seemed to be lost in his memories.
‘Go on,’ said Müller. ‘I still don’t fully see the relevance.’
‘The relevance is that during our encounter in my hotel room, I clearly saw something that linked him to Eisenhüttenstadt. Something that I quite recently learnt – from gossip at the EKO steel works – also linked him to the body your police colleagues found by the shore at Senftenberger See.’
‘What?’ asked Müller, though she’d already guessed the answer to her own question.
‘A tattoo. A partial tattoo of the local Hütte football team, BSG Stahl.’
23
The news that Dominik Nadel had been working as a male prostitute at the trade fair was an important new angle. She wanted to discuss it with Tilsner as soon as possible, but she had other things she needed to do first. After saying goodbye to Metzger, Müller retreated to the Strausberger Platz apartment, hoping for some quality time with the twins, and Emil, once he was home from the hospital.
But as soon as she was through the front door, a resigned-looking Helga handed her a note.
‘One of your colleagues just rang from police headquarters. I said I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, but he asked me to get you to ring him at Keibelstrasse as soon as you returned. He said it was urgent. His name was Kriminaltechniker Jonas Schmidt. And here’s his extension.’ She handed Müller a page from the telephone pad with Schmidt’s number scrawled on it.
‘Thanks, Helga. I’m sorry about all this. How are the twins? And has Emil been back at all?’
‘Emil? No, I haven’t seen him since this morning. Jannika and Johannes are fine. They’re sitting up in the lounge. But to be honest, I’m finding it a bit of a struggle. I’m not getting any younger. I was meaning to talk to you about it. I think we need to find them a nursery or a kindergarten. They’ll be crawling soon. I didn’t realise that you’d be away so much.’
Müller felt a wave of emotion pass over her. She was being selfish. Putting her job first. It
was the wrong way round. It had taken years – a whole lifetime – to find her natural grandmother, the only blood link to her now dead mother. The twins had been a gift almost from heaven after years believing that the physical and emotional trauma of the rape at the police college had left her unable to conceive. Now she was in danger of tossing it all away. For the sake of her police career. It wasn’t worth it. She felt her eyes begin to moisten. She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of Helga. Not in front of the twins. It would just make things even worse.
Helga lifted Müller’s chin, so they were looking into each other’s eyes. ‘Look, don’t get upset. I’m not angry. I’m not saying you’re a bad mother. I knew the deal when I moved in – I knew what your job would be like. Well, I had some idea. I just think, for their sakes, we need something a bit more formal. There’s plenty of free childcare in the Republic. I’m sure through your position you have access to the best. Let’s use it. Let’s take advantage of it.’
Not trusting herself to speak, Müller simply nodded. Then she pulled herself free of Helga’s hug, and went to see the twins.
She crouched down first in front of Jannika. Her daughter immediately started babbling and smiling at her. Then the girl reached across and tried to grab a coloured brick Johannes was playing with, prompting him to start wailing and screeching. Helga rushed in, picked him up and started cradling him, with Müller rooted to the spot as though she didn’t know what to do.
‘That’s not a very nice way to greet Mama, is it little Hansi? You can do better than that, can’t you?’
Müller had to bite her tongue. She didn’t want her son to be called Hansi. It reminded her too much of the man at the centre of her previous investigation. But she knew she had to be grateful. Everything was in danger of falling apart. She couldn’t afford to anger Helga at this point.
